


Our Language

by kaibasetos



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 14:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4308402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaibasetos/pseuds/kaibasetos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t touch me,” Kaiba breathes, and he can feel Jounouchi try to strain against his hold.</p><p>“That’s not fair,” Jounouchi protests, panting. Kaiba smirks, drinking in the picture of Jounouchi’s battle to remain indignant with his hair mussed and his eyes dark and a bit unfocused.</p><p>“I never said anything about being fair. If you want me to touch you, don’t touch me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Language

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was whipped up for a lovely Tumblr follower, who requested that I write "dirty things in the office". This one's for you, Ally! I hope everyone enjoys!

Being with Kaiba is unpredictable. One moment his eyes speak a language of anger and condescension, the next they speak a language of hunger and sensuality. One moment his mouth gives form to scathing insults, the next it gives form to struggling confessions. One moment his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, the next they’re _everywhere_.

One moment you’re having an impassioned conversation with him, the next you’re sprawled on the edge of his desk with him standing between your legs, letting him ravage you.

It’s been too long anyway.

“Kaiba,” is all Jounouchi can think of to say, Kaiba’s lips on his neck and his hands under Jounouchi’s shirt. He scratches marks down Jounouchi’s ribs and bites down on his skin, sucking hard enough to make Jounouchi shiver and moan, leaving a mark that he stops to admire for a moment. The blood pulsing right under the surface, rising and blooming, staining him dark and filthy. This is how he feels. He’ll make Jounouchi the portrait of his sin.

He bites his way up Jounouchi’s throat, noting with appreciation the way he leans his head back in pleasure as his breathing quickens just a bit. The curve of him is beautiful.

“For once in your life,” Kaiba murmurs hot against his jaw, his hands sliding over Jounouchi’s back to map and memorize the ridges of his spine. “For once in your life, Jounouchi, just shut _up_.”

He punctuates this with a hard kiss, one that turns fervent quickly -- his tongue in Jounouchi’s mouth, his hands on Jounouchi’s hips, his own breathing like palpitating heartbeats. Jounouchi lets out this ungodly noise against him, almost writhing, and the more he needs the more Kaiba feels himself start to fracture. When Jounouchi reaches up to thread fingers into his hair, Kaiba snatches his wrist and pins it back down against the desk, breaking the kiss with a bite of Jounouchi’s lower lip.

“Don’t touch me,” Kaiba breathes, and he can feel Jounouchi try to strain against his hold.

“That’s not fair,” Jounouchi protests, panting. Kaiba smirks, drinking in the picture of Jounouchi’s battle to remain indignant with his hair mussed and his eyes dark and a bit unfocused.

“I never said anything about being fair. If you want me to touch you, don’t touch me.”

Jounouchi makes a sound trapped somewhere between pitiful and angry, and it takes a moment, but eventually he begrudgingly lets himself go. He doesn’t say it, but Kaiba can hear him anyway: _don’t stop_. He feels a thrum of lustful, godlike power build in his chest, pouring out through his hands as he runs them eagerly back up under Jounouchi’s shirt to brand every inch of him with possession. Utter control is always what he craves, but undoing Jounouchi is a unique thrill, like a drug he’s hopelessly addicted to. Jounouchi could fight him on this if he wanted to, but he doesn’t _want_ to.

In this moment, Jounouchi is entirely his.

“That’s better,” comes out as a whisper against the other side of Jounouchi’s neck, where Kaiba bites and sucks again, raising more marks. With each fresh bruise Jounouchi gives a little more, a symphony forming in his mouth, his body trembling under the wake of Kaiba’s wandering touch. He feels blown open, the fierce rebellion in him pried away to expose raw vulnerability, a body reduced to pure feeling.

When Kaiba unbuttons and unzips his jeans to slip a hand inside and trail wanting fingers over the head of Jounouchi's cock, Jounouchi gasps a particularly desperate and delicious version of his name.

Kaiba wants to devour him.

He strokes Jounouchi slowly, with each motion cataloguing the way Jounouchi at first relaxes into him and then rises to meet him. His hips rock, his head tilts back, and Kaiba has never seen a more stunning sight than Jounouchi defiled and wanting for him framed in the dim dusk light from his office window. He could picture it a Renaissance painting, a wonderful piece of art that belongs only to him.

His eyes dart down to Jounouchi’s hands, white-knuckled from grasping at the desk’s edge with the effort of not touching him. When he places his own hand over one of Jounouchi’s, Jounouchi instantly laces their fingers together and holds to him like a rock in the middle of a turbulent sea. It’s so intimate Kaiba first feels the urge to pull away, but instead he rests his cheek against Jounouchi’s and strokes him sloppier, needier, just to feel the way Jounouchi’s hand clenches around his when he moans and shakes.

“Say my name,” Kaiba whispers into Jounouchi’s ear, and Jounouchi quivers, his hips bucking. He’s falling apart, piece by yearning piece. Kaiba’s rhythm quickens, urging a reaction. He feels Jounouchi’s nails dig hard into the skin of his hand, hears them scrape against the wood of his desk where they aren’t touching, but the pain is a rush.

“Seto,” Jounouchi groans, brilliant and bright and breathy, and Kaiba’s grip on his hand tightens in response. It kills him to hear it, a sacred sound that only the worthy are allowed on their tongues, but Jounouchi. Fuck, Jounouchi is nothing if not worthy. “Seto, Seto, Seto.”

There aren’t words for Kaiba to describe what that quiet mantra does to him, how it tears through him and leaves him in ruin, how it makes his breath feel like knives in his lungs. Kaiba kisses him and can’t stop kissing him, touching him, stroking him, wanting him, allowing himself the freedom to tremble the way Jounouchi is trembling, to move the way Jounouchi is moving, to give himself over and become one and fluid.

Jounouchi’s muscles tense slowly, the language of him becoming constricted and stuttered, his grip on Kaiba tightening until it burns in the most exquisite way. He builds to his orgasm silently but he comes like he’s being destroyed, shuddering and twisting and crying out unintelligibly, his back arched and his head thrown back as he finally crashes. All the while, he never lets go of Kaiba.

Kaiba watches him intently, the gorgeous image of him coming undone, and wants to keep him right here, like this, forever. God, what a divine pleasure it would be.

It takes a solid thirty seconds for Jounouchi to regain himself, to stop his body quivering and sweating in the cool office air. Kaiba doesn’t stop watching him, his eyes drifting everywhere like he seeks to memorialize the moment through them, then coming to rest for far too long on the stark marks forming constellations against Jounouchi’s throat. Everyone is going to see them. There's a part of him that _wants_  everyone to see them.

When Jounouchi finally straightens up they lock eyes, Jounouchi’s gaze bleary and then suddenly aware, a grin already starting to spread across his face.

He gives Kaiba a once-over that reads as positively predatory, and his voice is rough but lecherous.

“Your turn, rich boy.”


End file.
